Man Apart

Milestone.

Her eighteenth birthday represented a milestone, they said.

Some fucking milestone, she thought.

Time to move out, time to enter 'mainstream society', outgrown the care system, yadda yadda. What the fuck did she know about mainstream society? She'd been in care since she was ten, courtesy of an alcoholic mother and an abusive father. Now, since hitting her 'milestone', she was out. Twelve months in a shithole supervised house with four other misfits - 'assisted transition' they called it - then she was on her own.

If that wasn't frightening, she didn't know what was.

She drifted reluctantly up the last flight of stairs, sucking heavily on a smoke. It stank of piss, the brick walls marked with graffiti, no light working as usual; the moonlight was bright enough. Curtis's door was half open. Not ajar, just the bottom of it was busted where the police had put his door in the last time and Housing hadn't fixed it. Standing before it on the landing she was nervous and anxious all over again. Her stomach was jumping. She sucked smoke into her chest - stubbed the butt out on the sill of the open window - unconsciously rubbing her cheek where he'd hit her.

Shit. She didn't want to go through with it.

Almost as if the door was working against her, as if it had heard her thoughts and wanted to thwart her, it swung open. Curtis stood in the frame, looking back over his shoulder into the flat, his cafe latte skin partially hidden beneath a white muscle vest and blue sweat pants, hair shaven into swirling patterns close to the scalp. His head swung around, bad skin and stubble, and he saw her, jumping slightly at her proximity. In that brief moment she saw bloodshot eyes, smelt weed from the flat, on him.

"Fuck Taylor, what the fuck you doin' stood out here?" he said, voice a little slurred, looking around suspiciously. "You're fuckin' late."

"Hey Curtis, good to see you, too," she said, trying for cool, managing lippy. Her heart was hammering.

He glared at her before standing back to let her in. For a moment she hesitated, thought about backing out, backing off. Shit, where was she going to go?

She brushed past him into the filthy flat, passing through the tattered hall with its smell of damp plaster, its peeling walls, into the lounge. Here the smell of rot was overwhelmed by the fug of cigarette smoke, cannabis, body odour. A massive television took up one wall, fake black leather furniture the other three - squeezing the archway leading into the kitchen into a narrow walkway. A sick looking rubber plant, which doubled as a communal ashtray, stood forlorn in the corner and a low coffee table with a glass top, filthy with discarded butts, home to an overflowing ashtray, lay in the centre of the room. It was too warm.

Ryan slouched discarded in the armchair. Big, muscular, pale skin dotted with freckles, shaven head - spliff in one hand, bottle of beer in the other, raised in brief greeting as she entered. A girl in jeans and purple tee-shirt was sat on the sofa. Young - no older than fourteen, she thought - pale, thin, hair in a tight ponytail dyed black and gold, drinking from a bottle. The girl looked back at her with frightened, lost eyes - so disconcertingly like a mirror from the past that Taylor found herself staring. She shivered, picked up a bottle of beer from the table, flicked the top off with the dirty opener, swallowed a big slug of the warm liquid.

"Taylor! You're fuckin' late..." Curtis said from the doorway, emphasising every word in his thick 'street' accent, holding his scarred arm out in an invitation for her to leave that way. "He's waitin', in the bedroom - fuckin' get on with it will you?"

"Alright, Curtis," she said, her eyes on the girl. She wasn't much older than Taylor'd been when Curtis got his claws into her. "Just need a beer, before, you know..."

"Fuck, Taylor - you are one stupid bitch," he said angrily, his eyes flashing.

She read the signs.

"Okay, okay, I'm going, alright." She took another slug of beer, struggling to swallow it quickly.

"Just remember, the price is eighty. I told him you were still seventeen, got it?"

"Yeah, I got it." Another slug; she really needed the fuzziness of an early stage drunk.

She put the nearly empty bottle down on the glass of the coffee table, dumped her puffa jacket on the empty chair and twisted around Curtis towards the hall. He grabbed her face as she passed, his fingers digging painfully into her cheeks.

"Just remember, you fucking work for me," he said. "What he wants, you do, got it?"

She nodded, her face trapped.

"I said, have you fuckin' got it?"

"Yeah, Curtis, I got it, I got it."

"Good."

He let her go and she hurried into the grubby hallway, ducking into the bathroom as she passed. The toilet was filthy, stained with shit and piss, the plastic flooring yellowed and peeling. Gingerly she lowered herself into a crouch above the seat, emptied her bladder. Washed her hands in freezing water - a frightened, pale face staring back from the cracked mirror above the sink. at least the bruise on her cheek had almost faded. There was no towel so she shook her hands off and wiped them on her jeans.

The door to the bedroom was closed, white painted plywood marked with bootmarks - left by the police or one of Curtis's friends. She stalled, what was the etiquette in this situation? Should she knock? Despite her nerves, perhaps because of them, she almost giggled at that. Almost, but she could feel Curtis's eyes on her back and she knew it was only a matter of moments before he lost it with her. She turned the handle and pushed it open a little way, its bottom hissing on the surface of the carpet.

The bedroom stank like something had died in it. It was usually stale, musty, but this was new - a foul miasma filled with an icy menace that made her want to turn and run. If it wasn't for the feel of Curtis's baleful glare on her back she might have done just that. There was something forbidding about the room, something that hadn't been there before - even when Curtis had dragged her in there screaming and crying. She shuddered.

The room was dark even with a little light from the hallway leaking around the opened door, the moon visible as a silver shadow on the fabric of the drapes. She could sense his presence, the warmth of another person, the sound of his breathing, small noises as he shifted on the bed.

"Uh... Hi, hello," she said, nervous, peering around the door.

"You're late," the voice said, slow, cultured. There was an accent but it was unfamiliar, not local - not like most of the men Curtis had got to fuck her.

"Sorry, uh..." She struggled to think of an excuse, failed. "Sorry."

"Come in, then. Let's not waste more time, shall we," he said. She heard him shifting on the bed, still hidden in shadow. It was as if the darkness clung to him, she thought, as if he somehow repelled light.

"Right. Yeah, of course." She entered the room, pushing the door closed behind her, suddenly light blind in the dark. "Uh, what..."

"Come here, girl."

Frightened, heart hammering in her chest, she crossed to the bed. It wasn't her first time, Curtis had made her fuck her first man years before, pimping her illegally and profitably - for him; she never saw a penny other than the 'gifts' she got given - but it was her first time as a 'professional' in her own right. At eighteen she was too old for Curtis's 'friends', had to make her own way. Another milestone?

Gradually her eyes adjusted to the dim light, details emerging from the darkness - the cheap wardrobe, chest of drawers, the surfaces strewn with Curtis's shit, the shape of the bed against the wall beneath the window - the man still a mystery, bathed in shadow.

"Take them off."

"What?"

"Your clothes. Take them off."

"Right, okay." She turned around, looking for inspiration, somewhere to hang her clothes.

For a while she stood still, feeling as if she was teetering on the brink of a long fall. Finally, reluctantly, with shaking hands she pulled her vest top over her head, discarding it on the already cluttered top of the chest of drawers. Unbuttoned her jeans, pushing them down - stumbling over her boots as she tried to remove them - sat on the bed to kick them off.

She had worn her best underwear - choked off a nervous giggle at that - a black lacy bra and panties. For a moment she sat on the bed, frightened to go further, frightened to stop. All of a sudden she felt like crying, like running away.

"Come on, girl," he said. "I haven't got all night."

She jumped, swallowed her fear. Forced herself to unfasten her bra - oh, God, her hands were really shaking - letting it slide along her arms and fall to the floor, her tits bouncing free. She lifted her ass off the bed, sliding her panties down onto the floor, took a deep breath, felt sick, dizzy.

He moved on the bed next to her, his weight rocking her.

Shit.

His face loomed out of the darkness - gaunt, bone-white. He was bald, hairless - his skin so pale she could see a roadmap of dark veins through his scalp - horrible yellowed eyes, the stink of something rotten. She jumped, nearly screamed - instinctively recoiling from his sudden presence. Quicker than she could think his broad, thick hands grabbed her arm, her shoulder, pulling her back on to the bed - pushing her firmly down.

For a moment his jaundiced eyes bored into hers and she smelt the stench of him, a carrion smell that turned her gut. Cold icy dread settled on her, fear cramping her belly. She thought about calling for help, about screaming, but this was Curtis's place - who would find that strange?

Then he was on her, crushing her down with his weight, and she knew no help was coming. She felt his mouth on hers, his breath foul, stinking with the smell of something dead, his long tongue forcing its way into her mouth - slimy and cold and tasting of decay. She almost gagged, her stomach heaving.

His fingers were thick, coarse, topped with long, dirty, sharp nails that dug into her, scratched her. He fucked her hard, forcing her legs open, his cold cock thrusting painfully into her while she lay terrified, supine beneath him - like a slab of meat. She couldn't bear to look at him, staring instead up at the mouldy ceiling above, gripping the headboard with whitened knuckles while he used her body as he wished. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he groaned and she felt him shoot his load into her - the liquid surprisingly, horribly cool. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her skin crawling with horror, revulsion.

But that wasn't the worst part. After he'd fucked her, when she'd thought it was all over and started to relax, she felt his nails on her abdomen, digging into her skin, her flesh. He cut her, slicing his nail across her belly - just above her pubic hair - the sudden pain making her squeal. She tried to sit up, to roll away, but he held her down with phenomenal strength. Then, while she whimpered pitifully, he licked her blood off her skin, his cold, slimy tongue licking over her belly, sucking her blood from her wound while she lay still like death, shaking in the dark.

Eventually he seemed satiated, finished with her. He dressed quickly - a dark suit, a long dark coat, a hat covering his bald pate. She lay still, too scared to move, her belly throbbing with the pain of the cut, her cunt sore from the friction of his fucking.

"How much?" he said, his eyes glinting in the dark.

She started. Rubbed her eyes, remembering. "Curtis said eighty," she mumbled, scared, shell-shocked.

Briefly she saw his teeth again, a flash of white against the dark. "Have one hundred," he said. He pulled the notes from his billfold, dropping them onto the chest of drawers. "Until the next time." She flinched, just the thought.

He left quickly after that, slipping around the door, leaving it ajar behind him.

Taylor lay still for a long time, afraid to move. She felt worthless, dirty, used. Before, she had been forced into it, beaten if she didn't do as she was told. This time it was down to her, all down to her. She had sold herself, her body, her self-respect, everything she had. She felt something tickle her face - her hand felt wetness - she was crying. Fuck.

From the other rooms of the flat she heard talking, heard the front door open, close. In no time she knew Curtis would be in, looking for his money. She gathered herself together - she knew she didn't want him to see her like this, didn't want to be naked anymore. Sat up, dressing hurriedly.

By the time she was pulling her jeans on he was there, eyeing her body as she struggled to pull her vest top over her head, to cover her tits.

"Where's the money?"

She nodded at the chest of drawers.

Curtis gathered the notes, leafing through them. "A hundred. Not bad." He picked three notes out, handed them to her. "Here's sixty."

For a second she hesitated. In her mind the money, the reason for doing this, was dirty, tainted. Taking it would somehow make her dirtier - as if what had happened was fair, reasonable.

"Sixty is good for a first time whore like you, you ungrateful bitch," he said, misunderstanding her hesitation. "Fuckin' take it or take nothing."

She took the money, pushing it into the pocket of her jeans. Whore. That's what she was now, a fucking dirty whore. She rubbed her eyes.

"That's better. You want another beer? Some weed?"

"No. I've got to go," she managed, feeling sick, pushed her bra into her jacket pocket.

Curtis laughed. "Don't worry, it'll get easier the more you do it. Drink more, use some shit - you'll soon forget." He walked off, chuckling. "I'll call you when I find someone to fuck you."

******

Taylor walked the streets. Dawn couldn't be far off, it had been late when she left the flat and she knew she'd been walking for hours. Her feet ached but she barely noticed. For a short time it had rained, just enough to soak her, to make the streets shine. She'd been crying - her thick mascara smeared across her face and hands - but now she felt numb, her mind unable to focus beyond putting one foot in front of the other. The streets were empty, or practically so. She'd passed a few other people, some of them homeless - one had offered her a drink of something from a plastic flagon - but she barely even saw them, lost in her own misery.

After leaving the flat she'd made it as far as the landing before she threw up - beer and bile burning her throat, coughing up a thin yellow liquid. After, she'd stood for what seemed like ages in the stairwell, gulping down cool, fresh air, her stomach heaving. Finally, she'd staggered away, stumbling down the stairs and into the night. She had no destination in mind, nowhere she wanted to be, no idea where she'd been going until she passed the phone. She called the police, telling them about the girl in Curtis's flat - it was a small chance but it was more than anyone had done for her at that age. Perhaps it would be enough. Nobody should be made to feel like this, she thought.

It was as she passed the park's tall gates that she heard the noise, a muffled scream in the dark. It cut through her isolation, chilling her blood. She froze, listening. For a while there was nothing, then she heard another sound, weaker than the last - a groan of pain, a gasp. She looked about, the road was deserted - winding up the hill into the distance, dark buildings, her shared house just visible where it left the park side, or down to an empty junction with a bigger road. She peered through the bars of the gates, trying to make out anything in the dark, but beyond was only blackness.

She was on the verge of turning away, of running up the hill when she heard the third sound - a low cry, bitten off. It galvanised her with a sudden resolve that surprised herself, the urge to do something worthwhile. She slipped the bolt on the smaller pedestrian access gate and entered the park beyond. It seemed deserted, the path picked out in the moonlight stretching away before her - a rose garden to her right, colours drained to monochrome in the dying moonlight, trees and open space to her left. Nervously, she followed the path.

She was almost on him before she saw him. He lay in the centre of the path where it curved to go around the trees, lying on his back, facing the dark copse - clearly hurt, his hand clutching his side, his face screwed up with pain. A slug-trail of dark blood stretched from him towards the trees.

"Uh... Are you alright?" she said, standing a little distance from him, her eyes looking nervously about.

He looked over at her, his eyes dark pools, his hair like midnight. "No. Help me, quickly. Help me up."

His voice was deep, his accent subtle, unknown but strangely familiar. Slowly, realisation dawned, a feeling of dread creeping up her spine. The man in the room.

"Girl, I'm hurt, they'll be here soon - I need your help. Please."

The accent was the same but it wasn't him, she knew that. This man was younger, obviously not bald. Hesitantly she shuffled forward, her eyes alert.

"What's happened, shall I call the police?"

The man shook his head. "No. No police. Just help me up, quick."

She knelt next to him. He was young, early twenties, no more. Dark suit, white shirt. For just a moment, as she approached him, he drew back, recoiled, then he seemed to relent, letting her loop his free hand over her shoulder. His other, pressed to his side, was dark with blood, a lot of blood. Working together, his legs struggling to lift him, she got him to his feet with a gasp of pain. Once upright he leaned heavily on her, he was tall - a good six or more inches taller than her own five seven. The floor where he'd been lying was stained with blood.

"What happened to you? Have you been robbed?" She looked around anxiously.

"No, no. Please, we need to go, now."

A long hiss sounded from the copse, aggressive, angry, rich with menace. Taylor felt icy fingers grip her heart. Suddenly she wanted to be very far from that copse and whatever it concealed. As quickly as she could manage they staggered back towards the gates, glancing back at the copse with almost every shuffling step. The gates seemed like an eternity away, no closer each time she looked, the sense of danger increasing with every passing breath. There was something bad behind her, far too close behind her.

Eventually she reached the gates, passing through onto the still deserted road. This time as she glanced back she was sure she could see a figure stood on the pathway - no more than a dark silhouette, but somehow she knew that he watched her, watched her with yellowing eyes, menace emanating from him in waves. Suddenly her heart was in her mouth, her chest heaving as she struggled to draw breath - it was him, she knew it. Oh, God.

Like a pair of drunks they staggered up the hill, which suddenly seemed a lot steeper than the last time she'd climbed it. With each stumbling step she imagined the man behind her, emerging from the park to grab her, to drag her back in, but each time she looked the road remained as deserted as before. When they finally cleared the edge of the parkland, put an empty road between her and the figure, she started to relax a little. Maybe it would be okay, maybe she was wrong.

The man on her shoulder looked weak, for the past few metres as they'd hurried to cross the road he'd stumbled more often and she hadn't failed to notice his little gasps of pain as he'd tried to keep up with her frantic steps. His head was hanging down and he was hunched forward, hand still pressed to his side.

"Look, I'm no expert but I think you need a hospital, a doctor or something."

He shook his head weakly. "I'll be okay; just need somewhere to rest, inside."

Her house was just ahead. She glanced back, the road remained clear, but the memory of her fear was still heavy upon her. She really didn't want to be alone. Not today, not after...that. Even the company of a total stranger would be better than that.